But Gaspare was right. She did look ill. Emile would notice it
directly.
She washed her face with cold water, then dried it almost cruelly with
a rough towel. Having done this, she did not look again into the
glass, but went at once down-stairs. As she came into the drawing-room
she heard voices in the garden. She stood still and listened. They
were the voices of Vere and Emile talking tirelessly. She could not
hear what they said. Had she been able to hear it she would not have
listened. She could only hear the sound made by their voices, that
noise by which human beings strive to explain, or to conceal, what
they really are. They were talking seriously. She heard no sounds of
laughter. Vere was saying most. It seemed to Hermione that Vere never
talked so much and so eagerly to her, with such a ceaseless vivacity.
And there was surely an intimate sound in her voice, a sound of being
warmly at ease, as if she spoke in an atmosphere of ardent sympathy.
Again the jealousy came in Hermione, acute, fierce, and travelling--
like a needle being moved steadily, point downwards, through a network
of quivering nerves.
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